Too Many Winters
by KaosCumberbatch
Summary: Sherlock and John. Sick. Old. Waiting. Dying. And John still doesn't know the man sharing his room is the man who saved his life over 50 years before. "I am old now. And I am beaten… I am well and truly beaten." -SH
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Maybe it's unrealistic (a tad) but there's a reason it's called "FICTION". Anyway I still need a title. They're both like 80 so just bear with me. All medical knowledge comes from intelligent friend and Wikipedia so sorry for inaccuracies.

* * *

I can't see him. But I know his voice. How could I ever forget it? When he first told me his name, I thought I was in a dream. Maybe I was.

"I'm John. Looks like we'll be stuck with each other for a while."

Anyone else might have had to see his smile and the way his eyes light up to realize what exactly he meant. I did see it. I never stopped seeing it. Not for the past thirty years.

I nodded and mumbled, "Yeah…"

I had gotten a glimpse of his face when I first came in and he was completely different than I remembered. But age has it's effects on appearances as well as memories. And sometimes on the heart.

"How do you feel about the violin?" I asked softly. "I don't play much anymore, but when I can't sleep at nights, I try to."

When I can't sleep at nights. Which means most nights. I laughed to myself. When I can't sleep it's because of him.

It's always him.

"The violin…" he chuckled. "I rather like it."

"I used to play fairly well, but the mind is failing me a bit now."

_No. Shut up. You can't risk yourself like this. He can't know._

"I knew someone who could play like you can't imagine."

"Oh?... Who was it?"

He paused a moment and I could almost see him looking down at his hands as he fumbled with the hospital bed sheets. "No one important," he whispered with a touch of pain in his voice.


	2. Chapter 2

I played for him that night. It wasn't as sharp as it used to be, but he seemed to enjoy it as much as he used to and maybe more. Almost eleven at night and I stood by the window, watching the rain fall as I played. These were the kind of nights that hurt the most. When you can hear shoes squishing on the sidewalk and the cars rolling through the puddles. The faint patter of the water hitting the roof. Because that was his favorite. And maybe later on the rain would stop and you could go outside and look up at the stars. Even if you know nothing about them, it doesn't mean you can't appreciate them.

But it wasn't the same anymore. Because we weren't home on Baker Street. We were in a hospital, sitting around, waiting to die. We were old now. And he didn't even know it was me.

I closed my eyes as I played, pouring everything I had into the piece. The piece I wrote for him years ago.

It's always him. Everything was for him.

As I finished, I took a deep, shaky breath and opened my eyes. I put my violin on my bed and sat on the edge of it. I buried my face in my hands and John clapped softly as he laughed.

"It was very good," he said. "Thank you."

I laid on my bed and curled up on my side. "Any time."

One of the nurses knocked softly on our door and came in. "Can you keep it down, please? The man next door is trying to sleep."

"My apologies. We'll put it away," John said.

There he was, apologizing for me again. As if he were my mother.

He is in a way. He's also a brother.

And my best friend.

Always.

"Thank you," the nurse said softly and turned out the lights at John's request. She left, closing the door behind her.

I heard John giggle and I smiled slightly, even though my throat was closing up and my eyes were burning with tears.

"Goodnight," he whispered. His bed squeaked as he moved, trying to get comfortable.

Soon after, I heard his faint snoring and I clutched my sheets in my fists. I wept uncontrollably for what seemed like hours. I tried to keep quiet, but I couldn't breathe. Every time I gasped for air, I expected him to wake up.

Part of me didn't care. The pain was numbing and I couldn't focus on one thing, let alone worry about it.

Another part of me did. If he woke up to me sobbing, I couldn't lie to him. I've lied too much and I regret it more than anything. He couldn't know. He just couldn't.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **I know it's been ages since I updated. It's not been easy for me to write recently because I'm busy and also have no creativity. So hopefully this is alright. I'll do my best to get back into it.

* * *

John wasn't doing so well after that first week. His lungs were failing and I heard him coughing in the middle of the night. Most nights. As much as I wanted to deny it, I knew he was dying. He was all I had left. I didn't have my family anymore and, not to anyone's surprise, I hadn't made any new friends. I didn't want any. No one could compare to John Watson.

My whole life, I've pushed everyone away. It's so much easier to say you're antisocial or just don't like people or pretend that you don't care anymore than to admit how lonely and damaged you really are.

He wheezed a few times and finally caught his breath. I stayed still, looking out the window.

"Hey," he whispered. "Did I wake you?"

"I've been up," I answered.

"Sorry. It's gotten worse over the past few weeks."

I sighed quietly. "I'm sorry... It doesn't bother me, John. Don't apologise." And there was silence for a moment.

"I think umm... I think I need a nurse," he said and his bed creaked. I sat up and my heart started pounding. "What's wrong?"

"There's... my mouth tastes like blood." He sounded like a helpless little boy and it broke my heart. I wanted to run over and hug him again. I want to tell him who I am. I want him to stop hurting.

That night I slept even less than I usually do. The lights were dim on the other side of the curtain but the voices of the nurses were sharp and not what I would call quiet or all shuffled around John's bed and cared for him in a way that wasn't loving. They changed his sheets but they didn't hold his hand when he got back in. The spoke softly but they didn't touch his cheek or look deep into his eyes. I would have at least given him that.


End file.
